


Loophole

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Dimension Travel, F/M, Major Outlander Vibes, Modern Sansa in Westeros, Sansa-centric, Slow Burn, Timeline Shenanigans, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7901083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a family reunion, Sansa Stark walks into the Winterfell godswood hundreds of years into the past and discovers a history much different than the one she’d grown up learning. Surrounded by a strained political climate and strangers with familiar faces, she needs to play her part to survive long enough to find her way back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Girl in the Godswood

The drive to Winterfell was long, rainy, and most notably, boring. 

Sansa had tried to convince her parents to leave her in King’s Landing, but the Stark family reunion happened once every five years and her mother wouldn't hear a word of her begging. It was the worst fate ever. They hadn’t seen Robb in ages, not since his wedding to Jeyne Westerling. He’d moved abroad for work not long after, and they’d had twins since, a boy and a girl. They’d all watched little Lyanna and Hoster grow up through video calls and pictures. Even Arya was eager to finally meet them.

“How much longer?” Bran asked.

Their father chuckled from the driver’s seat.

“Any minute,” Sansa replied, and Arya popped an earbud out to chime in, “Didn’t you see the sign?”

Old letters carved into dark wood that had been bleached by sun over the years welcomed all visitors to Wintertown. It was a marker for another hour’s drive to their destination. They had been using it for time checks every road trip that Sansa remembered, a tradition passed down from Robb, to Sansa, to Arya, and now to Bran and Rickon. That was, if Rickon was listening at all to their conversation.

“Your sisters know what they’re talking about,” their father said. He pointed to the windshield, “Look.”

Their car came around the hill. A high stone wall and a looming castle came into view.  _ Winterfell.  _ Starks had lived behind those walls for thousands of years as kings of winter and, later, as Wardens of the North. Bran perked up immediately. Rickon gave an excited yell. Neither of the boys were young enough to remember the last family gathering. She should have known they’d be over the moon to see it in person, as often as they’d pestered her to show them pictures of it back home.

Secretly, Sansa was was excited to see it too. She had always liked Winterfell, even as a little girl who would rather play tea parties inside than stomp in the mud. It was romantic, if a little run down. A call to ages long past, when ladies were proper and wore beautiful silk gowns and knights were gallant and handsome. Sometimes she wondered what it would've been like to live in a place like that, with its acreages of red-leaved weirwood trees and stone battlements.

“Probably smelled something dreadful,” Robb would say anytime Sansa would divulge her fanciful daydreams. “There’s a reason we’ve become noseblind, you know. Horse shit. 

Mountains of it... everywhere.”

His words never failed to shatter the illusion.

 

They arrived soon enough, and Sansa helped unpack the car and shuttle suitcases. An entire wing of the castle had been restored with modern luxuries. Throughout the year those rooms were used as a bed and breakfast, or for destination weddings. Sansa and her family were staying in the row of chambers that had once been the lord’s hall. It was strange, seeing electric lights bolted to the stone walls -- modern meeting medieval -- but she was thankful for it nevertheless.  _ Too bad they didn’t build an elevator, too.  _ Dragging luggage through the hay-covered courtyard and up the winding stairs was no easy task. By the time she was finished, Sansa wanted nothing more than to fall face-first in a soft bed and message her friends still in King’s. She was caught by her father trying to sneak off, of course, and was subsequently put in charge of watching her brothers. Arya had already run off to explore, he’d said.  _ To escape babysitting duty _ .

“Don’t let them get too muddy,” her mother reminded her with a brief kiss on the cheek, already typing another message to Nan on her phone. Though the whole castle was already made up for their guests, nary a napkin out of place from what Sansa could see, Catelyn didn’t falter in her preparations.

“You’re asking for the impossible, mom,” Sansa replied goodnaturedly. She ushered her brothers out into the hall. “You two better behave.”

“Or what?” Rickon asked.

“Yeah, or what?” Bran laughed.

She gathered them close. “Or else the ghosts that live in these walls will come into your rooms tonight while you sleep… reach up under the covers… and drag you into the crypts!”

“That’s not true,” Bran said, but she saw the wariness in his eyes. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But do you really want to find out?”

The boys soon forgot to be scared. They darted into the dark nooks and crannies and popped out suddenly, laughing and giggling as she yelped each and every time. The only way to put a stop to it was to get ahead of them at every turn so she kept close, but other than doing their best to escape from her sight, they were well-behaved, if more curious than sensible.

“Come on, Sansa,” Rickon said, tugging at her hand. He tried to lead her into a tiny alcove that went to a long sealed-off tower.

“I’m too tall,” she replied, “take Bran with you and  _ come right back _ . Don’t open the door or try to climb the stairs -- the ghosts don’t like it when you do!”

“Ghosts aren’t real,” the boys cried back.

Eventually, they grew bored with the outer walks, and they dragged her to the Great Hall. 

It was Sansa’s favorite. The restored Stark tapestry hung on the far wall behind the dais that would have raised the main family above the rest. It was an enormous thing, the stitchwork exquisite in its delicate, intricate detail. She had studied it for hours as a child, completely enraptured. It was one of the reasons she wanted to go into art history. It detailed the history of her entire family, marriages and deaths and diverting lineages. The Starks were one of the oldest families in Westeros. Father said they had the blood of the First Men in the them. It was family lore that they were direct descendants of Brandon the Builder, the Stark man who’d laid the first stone of the Wall and founded the Night’s Watch.

“What does this mean?” Rickon asked, pulling Sansa out of her thoughts. She looked to where he was pointing. It was her name -- a Sansa from ages ago -- with a winter’s rose stitched by her branch. There were hundreds of tiny details like that throughout the tapestry. She’d asked hundreds of questions over the years to discover each and every meaning. This one, she knew, was not a good omen.

She smiled sadly. “It’s a winter’s rose. It means she ‘died before her time’. Like, oh, um -- Lyanna. Over here.”

“Oh…”

“What does ‘before her time’ mean?” Bran asked. “How young is too young?”

Sansa couldn’t do much but shrug helplessly. Girls long ago often married as soon as their periods came, and higborn children were sometimes promised much sooner -- sometimes as early as they were born. But this Sansa had no branch linking her to another, nor did she have any legitimate children branching off from her line. She narrowed her eyes, studying the tapestry once more.  _ Have you always been there?  _ She had made it a point when she was younger to know every Sansa had appeared in the ancient Stark’s family tree.  _ There’s Sansa and Jonnel.  _ But who was this forgotten girl?  _ I would’ve remembered you, name twin. _

“Sansa?”

She glanced down at Bran, mildly startled.

“You never answered my question,” he said slowly.

“I didn’t? Right…” She felt off, a strange squirm in her stomach. What was she missing? “Before she was eleven, maybe? Or younger… I don’t know for sure.”

“That’s sad,” Rickon said. Bran nodded in agreement.

Sansa felt much the same. It  _ was  _ sad, but it wasn’t uncommon. Women died in childbirth and were forgotten by history all the time, leaving behind a name, a legacy, and nothing more.

They left the hall quietly, but the boys’ melancholy mood disappeared as soon as they entered the main yard. Sansa followed behind them, tapping miserably at her phone as the signal bars went away one by one. They were too far away from the main hall for Wi-Fi now, and the reception at Winterfell was notoriously terrible.  _ It’s just two weeks _ . Two weeks felt like it would be forever.

Bran and Rickon tore through the courtyard, getting dirtier and muddier over Sansa’s adamant pleas that they calm down. “Think of mother” never worked on anyone but Sansa growing up, and so she sat down by the old smithy hutch, thoroughly defeated by their unending energy. Besides, Marg had left a cryptic message for her to decipher.

“Sansa!”

She looked up at Bran’s sudden shout.

He pointed urgently towards the godswood. “Rickon ran off!”

She rolled her eyes and tucked her phone into her pocket, setting off into a jog. “Rickon!” she called out. “You know we’re not supposed to go in there! Come back out and I won’t tell mom or dad, I promise!”

She hesitated at the mouth of the woods. Rickon didn’t reply.

_ Great. Into the creepy woods I go.  _ As soon as she crossed the gateway, Sansa shivered. She slowed to a brisk walk. There was something about being in the woods that always felt off. It wasn’t frightening, or scary. It just felt… ancient. Otherworldly. The air was damper, cleaner, and the thick loam underfoot absorbed the sounds of her steps. Enormous weirwoods with thick trunks and even thicker knotted roots tore through the ground here and there. Many of the trees had been planted the same time the first stones of Winterfell had been laid, their canopies reaching out so far and wide that it felt like dusk had already fallen. She shivered. In a way, it felt wrong to walk among the trees. She didn’t believe in the old gods, but it still felt like a thousand eyes were watching her.

“Rickon,” she tried again, casting her gaze around. He couldn’t have gone very far, but there were acres of woods to go through if he had. “Rickon!”

She walked and walked, panic slowly mounting. She’d lost him.  _ The one thing mom and dad asked me to do.  _ Suddenly, a terrible thought came to her. The pool by the heart tree was nearby. Rickon could swim -- they’d all learned -- but what if he’d fallen in and couldn’t, for some reason, get himself out? It wasn’t too far away from where she was. Her phone had no service when she checked and worse yet, she had no time to run back if something was truly wrong. She chose quickly. She went on.

Rickon wasn’t anywhere at all that she could see, and soon she was crying out wildly and desperately for him.  _ You stupid, stupid girl!  _ she thought.  _ They’re going to kill me if anything happens to him!  _ She hadn’t been paying attention, too absorbed in her phone to notice he’d run off. “Rickon!” she screamed, trembling on a sob. Her voice didn’t echo.

What sounded like a branch breaking underfoot cracked in the distance, and put on speed, hopping carelessly over the roots that blocked her path. She skidded past the sentinel tree that stood watch over a gentle, sloping mound and found herself in the very place she had feared Rickon would be. The reflection pool was as still as ever and as black as dragonglass. But Rickon was not there. All she saw was the heart tree with its sad, serious face. Red-colored sap dripped from its carved eyes like bloody tears. She started to feel faint.

Something dark flitted in the corner of her vision, and her heart stuttered in her chest. “Rickon?” she asked, her voice not more than a whisper. Suddenly, she was afraid. Who knew what else lurked in the woods? Direwolves had died off centuries ago, but other predators still roamed the north. Her palms grew sweaty and her heartbeat jumped in her throat. She tiptoed carefully around the edge of the pool, picking up a thick fallen branch along the way.  _ You’re being paranoid, Sansa. Rickon is playing a game with you and he’s going to jump out from behind the tree and you’re going to scream and-- _

A shadow flew at her. She shrieked and threw her hands up to protect herself, branch all but forgotten. But nothing hit her, and when she inched her arms down to peek out, a raven watched her from across the still water. She panted from the adrenaline rush, an absurd giggle bubbling forward at her overreaction.  _ It’s just a dumb bird.  _ She slumped backward onto the heart tree. “You haven’t seen my brother, have you?”

It cawed twice, and then took a leaping hop up and away, disappearing into the weaved canopy above.

By the time she picked her way back the way she’d come, Sansa was shaking, both from her strange encounter and Rickon’s disappearance. Tears welled in her eyes unbidden as she talked herself down from a building panic attack. Though she was sure no harm had come to her youngest brother, she’d still lost him, and in the creepy forest, no less. Her phone was useless. How was she going to face her parents? Explain to her father what she’d done?  _ Or hadn’t done.  _ She knuckled her tears away, misery pooling in her gut. Maybe Rickon had found his way home. Maybe the boys assumed she was not far behind.  _ Please, please… let him be safe. Old gods and the new, if you hear me… please… let my brother be safe. _

It wasn’t until the canopy thinned that she realized something odd. It was much colder in the woods now, the sky above a dull gray. It was summer in the north and, though the weather was just as temperamental as its people, it felt like  _ winter _ . She rubbed at her arms.  _ Stranger yet _ , she thought, squinting into the distance, was the smoke. She could smell it on the air. Sometimes Robb got it into his head that they needed to live “in the old ways,” and would build hearth-fires in each of their rooms, but her eldest brother wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow.  _ Maybe Arya started them. _

Then she noted the noise. The sound of people -- lots of people -- murmuring; horses chattering; the banging of metal on metal that sounded exactly like a blacksmith. A low voice called out, another one answered. None of them sounded like her family. And they were the only people who were supposed to be at Winterfell today. Sansa swallowed, her mouth suddenly gone dry.  _ There is a rational explanation.  _ She shook off her initial shock and peeked her head out the gate.

“What…?” she murmured. There were a  _ lot  _ of people here, and they were all dressed…

She blinked, then rubbed at her eyes. They were all dressed in jerkins and furs and dresses. Old style clothing found at a medieval festival where people dressed up and ate five-pound drums of meat. Some of the men had  _ swords _ . They had long hair and scraggly beards and thick capes. Banners hung from Winterfell’s ramparts, stitched with the sigil of Sansa’s surname: a gray Stark wolf dancing on a field of white snow. The old tower on the west wing was restored, too, and that was what made Sansa think she was hallucinating. An old fire had ravaged the castle several decades past. Neither her father nor her aunt or uncles wanted to foot the bill to fix the damn thing. But now… there it was, as it was meant to be. 

It had to be some stupid, elaborate joke. Robb had hired actors and transformed Winterfell to pull her leg. He just  _ said  _ he wouldn’t be coming until tomorrow. Rickon had run off into the godswood liked planned, or maybe he hadn’t at all and Bran had simply said he had. She hadn’t heard hair or hide of Rickon, who was more boisterous than all of the Starks combined. This was all perfectly rational. The restored castle; the terrible stench of manure and mud and some other filth drifting on the wind. It was all… rational. It could all be explained and would be in due time.

Despite her desperate grab for logic, Sansa’s knees began to buckle. She sunk back, once more under the stone archway of the godswood. There were legends everyone listened to growing up, of young men and women shifting in time by the will of the old gods. The stories were nothing more than fables, dreamy tales like  _ Brave Danny Flynt  _ and  _ Aegon the Adventurer _ . The idea of children lost in time was just as preposterous as the idea of dragons, but how could she explain a transformed Winterfell?

_ Nope. This is not happening.  _ But she couldn’t bring herself to leave her hiding spot, some instinct telling her not to step out from where she was because  _ what if.  _ What if the stories were true, and she was another girl lost in time? She couldn't go out into the yard. The men and women (and children and  _ animals _ ) were all strangers to her. Not a single face did she recognize. And if she was some teenager flung into the far past, if this  _ wasn’t  _ some cruel joke… How would she explain her sudden arrival into the castle? Her clothing? Her mannerisms? Did they even speak the same language she did?  _ Do they believe in burning strange women at the stake?  _ She couldn't remember.

She pressed back against the stone wall encircling the godswood, a wave of dread fluttering in her stomach. There was no escaping Winterfell from where she stood. The castle had been built around the godswood itself, and she had done plenty of searching in her younger years trying to find where the walls ended and began. That had been Robb’s greatest trick. There was none. It was a closed loop. A gust of wind swept across the grounds, and she shuddered violently as the cold pierced through her lightweight jacket. What was she to do?  _ Think, Sansa. Think. There has to be some way out of this. _

She stayed at the mouth of the woods for a long time, mulling over her predicament. She came up short every time an idea began to form. If she ran and escaped Winterfell’s walls, what then? If Wintertown was still where it had been earlier today, it would take her hours to get there on foot -- and again, what then? If she revealed herself, what would be her story?

She didn’t know what to do, but she knew she needed to come up with  _ something  _ before she froze to death. The air had become noticeably colder as the sun set. Her breath were puffs of white steam. She tucked her hands under her armpits, but even the crooks of her body offered little warmth. The chattering of people dimmed with the light, the castle denizens heading inside for respite against the blustering chill. Torches lit the yard and faint candlelight shone from the shuttered windows. Not a single electric light came on. Sansa’s lip quivered but she forced herself not to cry.  _ You’re alright. This is fine. Just think… keep thinking… _

  
  


She blinked her eyes open some time later and realized with horror that she’d fallen asleep. The sun had fully gone now, and what had previously been  _ cold  _ felt arctic. Her body was stiff beyond belief, her movements sluggish and borderline painful. She flexed her fingers. They were slow to respond. She tried to stand. How long had she been out?

Snow crunched underfoot. She whipped her head towards the noise and sucked in a breath at what she saw. Someone was headed straight in her direction, a blazing torch held aloft in their hand.  _ Run, run, get up and run!  _ But she was  _ so cold _ . She could barely move her tongue, let alone her legs. She was seconds away from being caught and she still had no excuse for her presence -- in the godswood or Winterfell itself. 

Before she knew it, the figure loomed over her. Their face was cast into sharp relief by the torchlight and Sansa felt like she'd been slapped when she saw who it was.

“ _ Robb? _ ” she choked out, confused and hurt, because had he  _ really  _ gone to all this trouble to confound her, to leave her out in the cold? She could have  _ died _ . But the more she stared, the more she realized it wasn’t her older brother at all. It couldn’t possibly be. The man in front of her had Robb’s face, but there was a distinctive scar bisecting his left brow. His hair was longer and he had a  _ beard _ . Jeyne had always complained about Robb’s facial hair, all the way through high school and university. He’d shaved one day and never went back. “An engagement present,” he’d said when their mother had hugged him in her joy. Jeyne hadn’t been the only woman in his life who had desperately hated his beard.

Sansa’s head swam.  _ What the hell is happening?  _ Darkness crept up on her. The man said something, but her vision had already tunneled into a sharp point. All she saw was the wolf pattern stitched into the neck of his jerkin. Whatever he said was drowned out by the ringing in her ears. She passed out.


	2. The Tapestry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wakes up in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) this fic has become 100% more self-indulgent and i hope you dig it
> 
> 2) i haven't read or seen outlander, so sorry/you're welcome for any and all resemblances
> 
> also, THANK YOU so much for all your kind words and encouragement over this fic thus far. <3

Sansa came to suddenly, and she cried out in confusion. It took her a second to realize she was being carried, but it was dark--and she couldn’t _see_. She struggled. Someone grunted, and whoever held her legs held on even tighter. Panic set in, and she doubled her efforts to escape.

“Don’t,” someone said. Their voice was male, and unfamiliar. They were holding her under her arms. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

She gritted her teeth and kicked out, twisting her body to no avail. “Let me go!” she yelled, words like _murder_ and _kidnap_ blaring in her mind like claxons. Who were these people? What were they doing with her? And they were out of their minds if they thought she’d go with them like a docile, little lamb. “Let me _go!”_

Her would-be kidnappers ignored her.

One of them swore. “OY! Hurry the maester!”

“Alright, alright--”

“Now! _Quickly_!” the other snapped. “She’s lost her sense to the chill--”

With strength she didn’t know she possessed, Sansa pulled her legs in, and reared back. The top of her head knocked into a chin, and she was dropped. The landing stole the breath from her lungs, but she scrambled to her feet despite the wave of dizziness that threatened to bowl her over. She was freezing, her cheeks and fingers burning from the cold, but she barely felt the pain. There was more light now--lit torches were bolted along the stone walkway--but the ability to see did little to explain her current predicament.

Two men in fur-lined cloaks stared back at her in the otherwise deserted passage they now stood, their faces cast in firelight and shadows. One bled from the chin and glared. The other looked grimly on. Both of them looked like they didn’t know what to make of her. She recognized neither.

Suddenly, Sansa remembered. She remembered the drive to Winterfell, and chasing Rickon through the godswood.

 _Rickon,_ she thought. A curl of despair settled in her stomach. _What if he’s here, too?_ Disorientation and panic spiked through her veins. She felt faint. “What’s happening?” she murmured. Her hands shook. _This can’t possibly be real…_ She remembered a restored castle, and she remembered Robb dressed in strange clothing, and knowing that it wasn’t truly him. She remembered fear, panic, and the biting cold--and then nothing more.

“Easy, lass, easy,” the grim man said. He spread his hands out, and talked calmly. “Lord Stark found you in the godswood half-frozen, and we were only taking you in to be seen--”

Her head throbbed. She stepped back, but there was nowhere to hide. “Lord Stark?” _Robb?_ “Did he… did he see a little boy, too?”

The two men glanced at one another.

Another man burst onto the scene before they could answer, emerging from an archway with a huff of harried breath. He was dressed in heavy gray robes, and each of his steps jangled the loops and rings of metal that hung around his neck. Sansa had only seen pictures of maesters in books or brought to life in film and television--but here one was. Her knees weakened.

“Where is she?” the maester asked urgently, and the man who held his bleeding chin adjusted the maester’s lamp until its light landed squarely on Sansa. The maester looked her up and down with a quick jerk of his head, eyebrows furrowing and lips thinning.

She shivered under the scrutiny. _It’s my clothes_ , she thought. She’d been wearing jeans and a jacket when she’d left. Practical wear in her version of Westeros, but materials that were still relatively new… if you were talking several hundred years, give or take. Comparing her denim to the rough-spun fabric of the maester’s robes and the heavy furs of her kidnappers, she had to face reality: it was becoming clear, and rapidly so, that whatever fevered dream she’d wished she was in was no dream at all. That everything she remembered of Winterfell and Robb’s double had been true, and real, even if she had no way of understanding how it had come to be. One moment she had been in Winterfell for a family reunion. Now she was here. It was like a story, or a book, or one of those stupid, simpering dramas she secretly loved. A girl lost in time. Those girls were all smart, self-sufficient, and somehow everyone believed their farfetched story of magical appearances. Sansa, on the other hand, had fallen asleep when she’d been thinking up hers, and followed up that fine showing by passing out.

 _Doesn’t matter_ , she thought. It really didn’t. She was the heroine in this story now, for better or worse, and she needed to think fast. She needed to play this smart. She needed a story, and a good one, too. She needed to get rid of her cellphone too. As soon as she was alone she'd smash it into a million bits and scatter it to the winds. Otherwise--well, she would rather not ponder upon the negatives (death, torture, all the finer parts of medieval life) until she very well had to. _You can do this, Sansa. You will survive this_.

“Come,” the maester said finally, and she knew by the way the other men postured that she did not have much choice in the matter. He beckoned Sansa to follow. With much reluctance but no argument, she did.

 

-

 

“I am Maester Luwin,” the man said. He guided her with a gentle hand to her elbow. His steps were quick, almost too fast for Sansa’s tired, achy body to keep up with. It was just the two of them now, the men from before gone back to whatever post they had been standing before. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” she admitted. Just saying the word dropped another ten pounds onto her shoulders. “I’m… I’m Sansa.”

Luwin looked at her sharply. “Can you tell me how you came to be in the godswood?”

“I don’t remember.” It was as close to the truth as she was willing to get. She licked her lips, and asked a question of her own, “Where are you taking me?” _How did I get here? Who is Lord Stark and why the hell does he look like my brother? Where did Rickon go?_

“Somewhere safe. Somewhere where we may talk freely.”

Sansa tried not to let the tears come, and thought back to every single lesson she’d learned about maesters. It was a position long extinct in her time, but she knew they were supposed to be healers and scholars, advisors to whomever they served. Luwin looked kind, she thought, and she prayed that his idea of a talk did not involve thumbscrews.

They walked for a ways through the winding outer wings of the castle, the sound of their steps echoing through quiet halls until they reached a flight of stairs. Candles lit the way up, and she realized where they were going at the halfway mark. The observatory in the high turret had been closed off for years in her time. Crumbling infrastructure had finally gotten to it and, much like the burnt tower, no one had wanted to pay the sizeable sum to restore it. At one point, Winterfell had been open to the public as a protected historic sight. The observatory had been mocked up to reflect what a maester’s office would have looked like. A heavy velvet rope had cordoned the antique set pieces off from visitors, but Sansa had only seen it as such in photographs and old videos.

It wasn’t so different now. Maps hung upon the wall, the largest one set behind a large desk that overflowed with papers and books. A fire roared in the hearth, the wood barely burnt. Large candles were placed throughout. A quill laid on the desktop, an inkwell tipped over onto its side. Luwin must have knocked it over when he’d been fetched. It wasn’t hard to imagine what had hastened him so.

“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to a simple high-backed chair. He offered her a pewter cup before joining her in the chair opposite. “Drink. It’s only water.”

Was poisoning one’s guests so common it was customary to proclaim you weren’t? She took a sip. Her trust was thin, but she was terribly thirsty.

They sat together for a long while. Neither of them spoke. She couldn’t tell if Maester Luwin was simply allowing her to rest, or if she was expected to spill her soul to him in her own time. Either way, she relished the newly-found warmth licking at her skin and the time she was afforded to formulate her backstory.

First and foremost, she knew she would have to present herself as a regular, lowborn girl. Even though she was a Stark, she would not be a Stark to these people, and pretending to be anyone else could be verified as fast as a raven could fly. Plus, she had already used her real name. _Sansa Snow, then_ , she thought. She was a base born girl with no memory of her family, desperate enough to seek shelter in the sanctuary of the old gods in the castle of her lord. _Rickon... I hope you are home. I hope you are safe._ Her fingers tightened on the cup.

“Are you ready to speak, Sansa?” Maester Luwin asked. His tone was gentle.

 _As ready as I’ll ever be._ She weaved for him the simplest story she could think of: she had been left at the gates of Winterfell by a family who longer wanted the burden of a daughter, and instead of shamefully prostrating herself before her lord for work, went to the godswood for respite. No one had paid attention to her as far as she could tell, and hadn't realized how cold it would become in the godswood. "I... I truly don't remember how--how Lord Stark came upon me."

She couldn’t tell if the maester believed her, but she poured every bit of her confusion and pain into telling it. It was a tactic she’d learned from Marg back in King's. She needed to sound authentic and innocent. She needed to divert any sense of suspicion away from herself. Luckily, pulling such trying emotions forward now was as easy as breathing.

Still, Maester Luwin did not respond right away. He stood from his chair and walked to a case of books, hands clasped behind his back. He remained still for several long minutes, as if thinking deeply to himself. Then he said, “You say you seek employment.”

She let out a tiny breath. “I do,” she agreed. If she were kicked out of the castle she knew she wouldn’t make it long. Worse yet, a creeping feeling told her if she didn’t play this right, she would never, ever be able to go home. She put the cup aside and twisted her hands together. “I can clean. Work the kitchens or do the washing. Or muck stables. I don’t care.”

He huffed. “Sansa… let me be frank with you. We are in trying times. The winter long promised is here. The Others walk the earth and the Dragon Queen sails for the iron throne as we speak--”

 _The Others? Dragon Queen?_ She fought to remain impassive. How far back had she gone?

“--and a red-haired girl calling herself _Sansa_ appears in the godswood the very same day… the very same day as Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter disappeared over two-and-ten years now passed. _You_. You look to be of the same age. You even look strikingly like Lady Catelyn.” Luwin reached up to touch the metal links around his neck. “Do you see the dilemma?”

Her stomach dropped. _Lord Eddard? Lady Catelyn?_ The names of her parents. But the more pressing matter: he thought her a fraud or a spy. “A coincidence.”

“Happenstance, perhaps. Maybe the work of the gods. Or perhaps a ploy to undermine the north. Do you know how many Sansa Starks have walked through the gates of Winterfell seeking sanctuary? A faked reunion?”

“Maester Luwin,” she rushed to speak, pulse jumping wildly in her throat, “I promise you I am _not_ that girl, nor am I trying to dress myself up like her. Nor am I trying to--to undermine _anyone_ or anything. I--I merely came here to beg for--”

“Employment,” he cut her off sharply.

She swallowed back her sob, and the tears she had long suppressed slipped free. “ _Yes_.”

He sighed, finally, and reached for an overstuffed book. He plucked a sheaf of paper from between its pages. He turned it in his hands, end over end, and then tucked it away into the billowing sleeve of his robe. He came to sit back in his chair, and gave Sansa a tired smile. He patted his knee. “For what small comfort my words may bring you, I believe your tale. You are not the first child who has arrived at our gates seeking refuge from winter’s winds. Nor are you, I am sure, the last girl to be named for Lord Eddard’s beloved daughter. But my words are only for advisement, not law-making or absolution. On the morrow, you must convince Lord Stark of what you told me. In the meantime, I will talk to the steward and see what room there might be for a girl at work. A kitchenmaid is with child several moons gone, and--well, that is talk for another day. Come, come. Let us give you a room.”

Sansa choked back her fear, for there was a little hope to be had in the maester’s word indeed. She might have convinced him, just barely, but now she would have to face a northern lord who may or may not be a spitting image of her brother and ask him, very sweetly, not to cut off her head.

She was taken to a small room and ushered inside. The maester bid her goodnight after vowing to fetch her in the morning, but when he left she heard the slide of a heavy bolt settling in place behind him. Whatever courage she had gathered into herself fled at the sound. She was not a guest, but a prisoner. That much was clear. She was stuck in a world far more dangerous than her own, and she had no idea what to do. All she had left was to cry, and to try to make sense of what tomorrow might bring. She crawled onto the musty bed in the far corner and wept as quietly as she could.

After a time, she could cry no more. She was exhausted, and the lingering headache she’d been plagued with since she woke pressed at her temples like a vice, but the absence of tears left behind a clear-headed emptiness that begged to be filled with reflection. She retrieved her phone and tabbed through it, swiping through the pictures of her family and memorizing their faces... just in case. Then, she got to work. She smashed it into tiny pieces with the heavy cup she'd been left with, and focused on Maester Luwin's words with each blow.

 _The Others and a Dragon Queen._ The Others were nothing more than scary stories of frostbitten zombies. Everyone knew that. Even old Westerosi tomes made that clear. The maester might have meant it as a euphemism. It certainly was cold enough. _I nearly died from it!_ Although Sansa knew it should have been summer in the North--at least in her Westeros--it was winter here. The temperature drop once the sun had set was incredible. Unlike anything she had ever experienced. Maybe that was what Luwin had meant. The Dragon Queen, though? No clue. Plenty of old Targaryens had dragon-related monikers, but that one rung no bells. She sighed. Sansa knew _where_ she was, but she realized that the _when_ was rapidly becoming just as important. This Winterfell must have a library of sorts. Her father had always told her historical records were well-kept in keeps and castles. All she would have to do is find it, and pray no one found her snooping around. Would a base born girl be able to read? Would she have been taught? Probably not, she suspected.

 _What about the tapestry?_ The idea came to her in a flash. It would work, she realized. She knew the Stark family history like the back of her hand; and, unless they had moved it, the tapestry was in the Great Hall for all to see. Westeros had over ten thousand years of history--the Stark family around for nearly just as long--and looking at the tapestry would be the quickest way to determine where in the timeline she’d been dropped. That way she could assimilate herself. Just enough to keep her out of trouble. No one would be suspicious of a kitchenmaid staring at her lord’s lineage, right?

A vague plan of action began to take shape in her mind, and she settled onto the mattress anew. _Rickon,_ she thought. _Mother, father… Arya, Bran, Robb._ Was she missing in her world? Were they worried sick for her? She scrubbed her face free of tears and took several calming breaths. _Think about them tomorrow. Think about them when you’re safe_.

Though she expected sleep to elude her, she drifted off almost immediately.

 

-

 

Sansa was woken the next morning to the sound of the lock-bolt scraping open. She pushed upright and clambered off the bed, looking around the spartan room for some sort of weapon--just in case. But there was nothing but an empty chamber pot in the corner, and the only person who stepped through the door was an older woman.

An older woman who looked remarkably like Nan. Sansa had to swallow back the bile that rose in her throat. Where her Nan wore nothing but practical pantsuits and kept her hair in a practical bob, this woman was in a dress. An apron was tied around her waist, and her hair was tucked under a wrap. She was carrying a wooden tray.

She gave Sansa a kind smile, who struggled to fix her own expression into something other than confusion and horror.

 _I’m still here._ She knew that, in her heart of hearts, that she was exactly where she’d been left, but the disappointment was tremendous. She felt _terrible._ Her eyes were sore and dry from all her crying, and her muscles ached like after a particularly brutal field hockey practice.

“I’m glad to see you awake,” the woman remarked, puttering around the room.

Sansa watched her warily. “How long was I asleep?”

“Just the night,” she replied perfunctorily, and pressed a wooden cup into Sansa’s hands. “Drink. It’s only water, sweetling. The maester has asked that I bring you to him as soon as you are up and able.”

She froze, the cup halfway to her chapped lips. “Maester Luwin?”

“Yes,” she said, looking at Sansa’s like she’d said something rather odd. “Don’t you know where you are?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I… I am at Winterfell.”

“Mm,” the woman hummed in agreement, seemingly satisfied by Sansa’s answer. “Come now. I have brought you food and proper clothes. I will help you dress.”

She licked her lips, thinking. “Can I… may I have your name?”

“Of course, sweetling. Call me Old Nan.” If Nan--Old Nan--noticed the way Sansa drew in a quick breath at her name, she did not comment on it.

Sansa wanted nothing more than to burrow back under the thick fur blanket and ever come out again. Not until everything righted itself. She didn’t want to see Maester Luwin or Lord Stark, or anyone else who looked like her family or people she knew. She didn’t want to be here, in whatever world this was, whatever _time_ this was. Her headache lingered, and her eyes throbbed from tears she couldn’t bring herself to shed.

Nan tapped her shoulder, gesturing for her to disrobe. Sansa hesitated, a refusal at the tip of her tongue, but did as she was bid. She had already stripped off her jacket sometime last night, and removing the rest was slow going--her arms felt like lead weights, and her fingers fumbled ineptly at her buttons. It didn’t help that Nan’s gaze was very clearly on the foreign denim material of Sansa’s pants.

Finally, she was naked. She was given undergarments, and stockings, and she put them on without assistance. Nan then helped her into a pale shift, and a long-sleeved dress. After she was laced up and put into a pair of leather boots, she was turned around for inspection. Sansa held back the urge to ask how she looked.

“Oh dear,” Nan murmured.

Her heart lurched. “What is it?”

“You look remarkably… well, never you mind,” Nan said, and brushed her hands on her apron. “All’s left is to fix your hair, and I daresay you are ready to be presented.”

Her stomach sank. “Must I go?” she dared to ask, her voice small.

Nan reached for Sansa’s hands, and gave them a comforting squeeze. It was answer enough, and not the one she had hoped for.

She was then given broth and hard bread, and urged to eat. Nan left. Sansa had very little appetite, but forced the food down regardless. Who knew when she’d be fed next, or at all? Maester Luwin had believed her, and surely imparted his opinion to his lord, but what if she could not convince Lord Stark? She ate slowly. She hadn’t even finished half her meal by the time Maester Luwin arrived.

“Good morning,” he greeted. She gave him a wane smile.

As soon as she swallowed the last bit of bread, she was escorted from the room.

She followed Maester Luwin as slowly as she dared, half wanting to get the meeting done and over with, and half dreading what was to come with every fiber of her being. She had no idea if Lord Stark was merciful or cruel or just. All she could do was repeat her story in her head, over and over again, as she was led to an unknown fate.

She found distraction in the castle. Winterfell looked to be the same as she knew it, but there were vast differences everywhere she looked. Sealed off doors were now open, leading to places she had never before explored. Bridges that led from one tower to another were intact. Thick candles lit the hallways. And it was _warm_. She reached out to touch the walls and had to draw back at the surprising heat.

“Winterfell is built on hot springs,” Luwin said. “Water is piped through the walls and keeps us warm even in the coldest of winters.”

In Sansa’s time the pipes had long ago fallen away to rust. “Fascinating,” she replied.

She was led to another high tower with looped stairs. Squares had been cut into the stone to hold candles, and the holes were overlaid with windows made from delicate glass. The further up they went, the more intricate their designs became. She saw beautiful women, and wolves, and flowers--they were the only bit of bright color in the entirety of the castle that she had seen thus far. The North was notorious for their cruel winters, and its people were famous for their ability to thrive in such a dark, grey place. Her father had often said the Starks long before them were harsh people. Now, tilting her head to look up and up the spiral tower, Sansa wondered how much so.

The door at the top was shut. Maester Luwin knocked three times against the thick wood, and, after an answering call, pressed a firm hand to Sansa’s back to guide her inside. The maester did not follow her in.

Sansa kept her eyes to the floor. Did she proceed forward? Stay standing? Should she kneel, or curtsey? She waited patiently.

“Sit,” she was commanded, and the voice was so utterly familiar Sansa couldn’t keep her composure. She had to look up. It was Robb. No--Robb’s double. Her heart swooped. Lord Stark wore a grim expression, and his eyes were hard and flat. The levity she’d always found in her brother was nowhere to be found in this man. It was almost enough for her to give up the game completely. _But you won’t because you don’t want to get thrown into a dark and dingy dungeon, Sansa. You need to figure out how to get out of this hellscape._ She sat.

“I would know your name,” Lord Stark said.

She folded her hands in her lap to hide her trembling. “Sansa… my lord.”

“Sansa,” he repeated. “Do you know it was I who found you in the godswood?”

“Yes.”

“And you called me ‘Robb’.”

“...yes.”

“Are we familiar?”

“No, my lord.” She kept her gaze firmly at this throat. She couldn’t look into his blue eyes--so similar to her own--any longer. _Keep it together, Sansa._ “It was a mistake, my lord. I’m sorry. Truly.”

His hand curled into a fist atop the arm of his chair. “Look me in my eyes and tell me true. Why did you come to Winterfell?”

It took every bit of effort to do as he asked. As she spoke, she heard a growl; the deep rumbling of a dog. She hadn’t realized it, so busy was she avoiding paying attention to anything, but there was a giant wolf sitting at Lord Stark’s feet. Its fur was grey, its gold-colored eyes piercing right through her. It was a direwolf. Her mouth went dry at the sight, but she successfully repeated the story she’d told Maester Luwin the night before. Speaking felt mechanical, the words coming forth by pure fear, and she hoped Lord Stark took the flat tone of her retelling for the terror it was. A tear slipped down her cheek. It wasn’t forced.

The direwolf’s ears twitched.

Much like Luwin, Lord Stark did not respond immediately. He watched her quietly for a while, and then, his expression softened--a hint of her own brother Robb breaking through the glacial veneer this man wore. “You ask for work, and I will grant you that,” he said with finality. “Maester Luwin will take you to my steward, and he will see to it that you are properly placed.”

He dismissed her, and she forced herself to walk slowly from the room. Maester Luwin was waiting for her right outside the door, and he gave her a faint smile as he touched the chain about his neck. The one she returned was watery, but hopeful. Against all odds, she’d survived the encounter. “Did you know?” she asked, when they were far enough away from Lord Stark’s tower. “That he would accept me?”

“Lord Stark has always been a merciful man,” was all Maester Luwin said. Sansa did not miss the fact that his words were not a resounding _absolutely._

She was taken to the steward next, who introduced himself as Vayon Poole. He was an older man, and very clearly held a no-nonsense attitude. His eyes snapped up and down her figure, thin lips curling into a frown. “Show me your hands.”

She did as asked, and he flipped them over.

“No callouses,” he remarked. He looked at her with shrewd eyes. “What work did you do before here?”

“Um--”

“Have you any special skills?”

 _No._ “I can cook, and clean. I’m… I’ve worked in stables before.” She grew up riding horses, brushing them down and cleaning their pens. She was sure she could pick it up here too.

“ _Stables_?” The steward raised his eyebrows as if he were thoroughly scandalized by her suggestion, but broke into a sigh after a moment. “I will find you work. And I expect you _to_ work, and _hard_ , girl. Winterfell is a large castle and a difficult household to keep. Any tarrying on your part will see you gone from my charge. Understood?”

She nodded rapidly.

“Go to the kitchens. Report to Una. She will see to it that you know your duties and have a room to stay.”

Again, she was dismissed. The steward’s office was in the inner square of Winterfell, and it was only because she had walked these halls many times before did she know where to go next. Maester Luwin had dropped her off like a piece of luggage, and Vayon Poole clearly didn’t care to see her to her next post. It was the perfect opportunity to enact her plan: she could cut through the Great Hall to visit the tapestry on her way.

She found the stairwell that brought her to the main square. Only the hustle and bustle in the yard separated it from the Winterfell she knew. Smoke puffed from the smithy hutch, the clanging of metal adding to the din of voices. She gathered her skirts and hurried along.

The side door to the Great Hall was already open, and Sansa slipped inside. Metal chandeliers lined the high ceiling; melted candle wax was scattered across the floor. Dozens of long tables were lined up before the head table.

The tapestry hung where she had remembered it, and she gave a great sigh of relief. She went to it, but looking at it did not do much more than confuse her. It was all _wrong_. Names were misplaced or missing entirely. Her true north had always been _Sansa_. Growing up, there had only been one: Sansa and Jonnel. But there was one more now. A Sansa with the winter’s rose.

She felt a cold shiver run down her spine. Yesterday she had stood in much the same place with Bran and Rickon. _This_ had been the tapestry she had seen in the Great Hall. That was what she had missed. Her gaze skipped around in earnest.

Next to Sansa was Robert, Arya, Brandon, and Rickon, all born from Catelyn and Eddard. The names of her parents. The names of her siblings. Her family. It was _impossible._ Just as impossible as it was that she stood here in the first place, a very unhelpful voice in the back of her mind pointed out. She swallowed thickly. What if she hadn’t been thrown back in time, but into a different version of her life entirely? There were theories (emphasis: _theories_ ) of multiple universes where you were alive in each, living a different version of what could’ve been. Maester Luwin had said it the night before: Sansa--this world’s Sansa--had disappeared. It didn’t explain what _she_ was doing here now, but--

“Are you lost?”

Sansa jumped in surprise, and turned. A man had addressed her. He stood in the light of the doorway, his countenance revealed only when he took a half-step forward into the hall. He was handsome, she noted, with dark hair, and dark grey eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. He was dressed in black, and a heavy black cloak was draped over his forearm. His expression was somber, but not unkind. He looked oddly familiar, like nearly everything felt or looked familiar here, but she couldn’t remember if they’d ever met in her world.

“I’m afraid I might be,” she lied. “I’m looking for the kitchens.”

“You’re almost there.” He inclined his head. “Through the doors and to the left.”

She gave him a nod of thanks, and went on her way without a backward glance.

A middle-aged woman was waiting for her. She introduced herself as Una, and her scrutiny of Sansa yielded an incredulous, “You’re _thin_. And late.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, though she wasn’t sure for which slight; maybe both. “I didn’t--”

“No matter,” she was cut off. “Come along, girl. We’re already an hour behind for dinner.”

Sansa was thrown into the thick of things immediately. The kitchen was placed off the Great Hall and had a high-domed ceiling made of dark grey stone. There were spits of meat already roasting, and large iron cauldrons bubbled with soups. The smell of yeasty bread permeated the air, and she could hear the cluck of chickens in the pen out back. _Is all this just for one dinner?_ There was so much. The glass gardens were nearby, as was a large well and a small pond, and she was put in charge of fetching water. It was backbreaking work, but Sansa didn’t dare complain. Una was a stern woman, but she was fair and patiently explained the tasks she demanded of Sansa. There were others in the kitchens--women and men, both younger and older--but they gave Sansa a wide berth and did not speak to her at all.

Sansa, for her part, relished in the labor. For now, at least. It was a fair distraction from the shock of what she’d found on the tapestry. Or, rather, what she _hadn’t_ found. Still, she knew she would have to assess her predicament sooner or later, and come up with a new game plan. She had no easy anchor point now, and whatever tendril of hope she’d been clinging to for an easy resolution had long frayed and gone.

 _I’m lost. Well and truly, aren’t I?_ She lowered her bucket into the well for what was certainly the hundredth time yet. Her fingers ached badly from the harsh twine of the rope, but she did pulled the bucket back up as swiftly as she could. She needed to work hard, she knew. She had no doubt Una and Vayon Poole would see her gone in a heartbeat if she didn’t. She lifted the swaying bucket and placed it on the lip of the well with a sigh, and began to turn back to the kitchens--except that she saw a familiar flash of black fluttered in the corner of her eye that made her freeze. It was a raven, landing with a great flap of its wings on the copse of trees by the springs. Sansa’s fingers went numb and she nearly lost her grip of the water. It was just like in the godswood.

She waited, hoping against hope that this would be the answer to all her problems, and she clenched her eyes shut. _Please take me home_ , she prayed. _Please, please._ But the bird only gave another breezy caw, and she opened her eyes to see it leap into flight. She watched it go, her heart thudding wildly in her chest, to the ramparts in the distance. The weight of disappointment was crushing.

“ _Girl!_ ” Una yelled. Sansa jumped, and twisted around to see the older woman leaning out the kitchen door. Una waved impatiently. “Get on!”

Sansa gave a single swipe at her watery eyes, and hurried back to work.


End file.
